Henry, Jack of all Trades.

Last night, I pulled into the mini mall off of William Cannon, to see if I could get my nails done. It's been nearly a

A good manicure.

month, my nails were getting a bit long and I had one that needed some major repair. Although I've been going to this spot regularly for nearly a year, I can rarely get my favorite technician, Henry - because I never make an appointment. It was 6:30 when I found a parking space. I assumed they would close at 9, as the salons back home in Philly did. Not so. The place was closing in thirty minutes.

I faltered at the door...wondering if I should be one of those people I loathe. The ones who come in requesting an hours’ worth of service fifteen minutes before closing. I stood there with my hand on the door, weighing the odds when Henry appeared from a back room off to the left. Henry has only done my nails a handful of times, but each time he has, I grow more respectful of his craft. He waved me over and began preparing his station for me, immediately.

Henry is one of my favorite studies. He's Vietnamese-American, raised by immigrant parents. Looking at him, I would guess him to be about 40. Clearly he works in the salon as something to do, as opposed to it being his livelihood. At his station, he keeps his realtor business cards, and he is always dressed as if he may dash off at any moment to show someone a home. I had often wondered if he owned the salon, because he does not have the air of an employee, at all.

He's different then any other nail tech in the place. Henry seems to pick the hands he wants to work on, and every employee in the salon seems to accept this with a silent grace. If nothing of interest arrives, Henry disappears with his cell phone into the back room. He does not smile in the almost effusive manner that the other techs do as customers arrive.  He does not bother to engage customers in conversations and he rarely greets people with more than a grunt of recognition. Henry exists in his own world and he chooses carefully who will be granted admission.

I suppose that is what I like about him. Even from the first time I sat in his chair and went about being ignored for over an hour. He reminds me of my East coast upbringing, where little is spoken by mouth, but you can learn someone’s entire personality in their silence. In an odd way, that is comforting to me. I don’t have to work hard to find some common conversation, or pretend we’re friends or even in the mood for superfluous chatter. I could simply sit, and watch him work.

And watching him work, is where I began my study. If you’ve ever been to a nail salon, you know the process is nearly mechanical. It is a series of concentrated steps that finish with either a basic manicure or an extensive, ornate amusement park of nail design. No matter what you choose, you can bet it has been done millions of times before. The tech may talk with you about trivial days events, or they may talk on a cell phone, or to a neighboring technician while you nod off, stare into space or look lazily at a television looming over your head. The experience is entirely what you make it, and every technician seems to have learned this as they learn the techniques of acrylic application with a paintbrush.

Not so with Henry. My first visit with him, Henry began by studying my hand while I explained to him what I wanted. He was only partially listening. The other part of him was studying me. My hand, my jewelry, the technique of the technician before him. He scowled, he smiled at a private joke and even shook his head in total disapproval as he turned my hand this way and that. I learned quickly with Henry to just be quiet, and let him figure out what I was looking for.

“You want these shortened quite a bit?”

Before I could answer, he grunted his approval, still studying my fingers. My first time in his chair, I felt like he studied my hands more than any lover ever could.

“You have long fingers, these nails are too blocky, too thick. Makes your hands look big...bulky. You don’t need all of that.” He appeared to be talking to himself, because he made no eye contact with me at all during his assessment.

As he began to work, clearing away evidence of mediocre manicures of the past and clearing his pallet for his own effort, I watched him carefully bring the surface of my nail back to its original composition. As he worked, several technicians loomed over his shoulder, watching him work. He would occasionally blurt out thoughts in Vietnamese to them and they would nod at each other with what appeared to be a reverence.

When I left that day, I had the most memorable manicure I’ve ever experienced, and Henry had barely said six words to me.

This evening, he seemed almost happy to see me. He took my hand and shook his head again, dismayed at the excess shape given to my nails.

“When are you going to start making appointments with me?”

I looked at him, almost unsure he was speaking to me. He raised his eyes and waited for my answer.

“I am never sure when you’re going to be here. I always look for you when I come in.”

He nodded, and continued surveying my nails. I thanked him for taking me so late in the day, unannounced and he was almost warm in his dismissal of my late arrival. And without another word, he went to work.

I love to watch him, because he takes so much pride in his work. He’s a perfectionist, his perfectly styled hair and perfect nails would give him away even if his work did not. He is purposeful in every motion, and focused entirely on each nail as if it were a canvas. This time, in an effort to get to know him, I asked him about his realtor business card.

Henry looked up with interest when I asked him if he sold commercial or residential properties. I had found the key. He opened quickly, telling me about his preference for commercial over residential and the differences in the market here versus the East Coast. I shared with him my East Coast upbringing and we compared notes on the differences in culture here in Austin, versus New York and Philadelphia. Just as quickly as the conversation began, it ended. It almost seemed as if Henry realized he was coming dangerously close to having an enjoyable conversation – so he answered my next question about his work with a gruff affirmation, before resuming his focus on his work.

American Idol blared on the television behind his head, so I began to watch that while I waited for my insides to sort out what I learned about him from that five minutes of free exchange.

“I am a musician as well.”

It took me a moment to realized he had spoken, again, to me.

“The last singer? She was off pitch, and she didn’t follow the melody.”

I laughed, and agreed. When I asked him what instrument he played, he again came to life.

“I play the keyboard, I used to have a band too. We used to play weddings and small events – not anymore though, people left, moved away, jobs took them in different directions.”

As he continued working on my hands, I would occasionally mention for him to turn around to watch contestants I found particularly amusing. We’d laugh or nod in approval at each. And again, almost like clockwork, Henry would resume his work with a gruff answer which was my indication to cease the chatter. It became almost an amusing game of duck, duck goose. If I could find the right topic, he would come alive with a story only to abruptly come to a stop.

“There was another of these shows, one for comedy, a Vietnamese man won the competition. I think it was a year or maybe two years ago. I was shocked.”

It was another random blurt, which I happily consumed to learn more about him. But that was all he would offer. He went back to explaining the proper shape of my nails and the logic behind the length I preferred to keep them.

“Are you a writer?” He finally asked as he buffed the last nail to brilliant perfection.

I cocked my head, unsure of how to answer. Technically, I am a marketing director. So I asked for clarification to be sure.

“Do I type a lot?”

He shook his head. “Are you a writer?” He was insistent.

I waited for a moment as he studied my face for a silent answer. He nodded curtly and I did the same. Quickly, he stood indicating my nails were done. And they were perfect, as always whenever he takes care of them.

“Be sure to make an appointment next time for when I am here. Call first.”

I smiled and nodded. “You did a beautiful job Henry, thanks so much. I will definitely make appointments in the future.”

He was already walking away. I heard an “mmmph,” which I took as an affirmation and the wish for a goodnight.